Zeds
by mst3kaddict
Summary: Aeowyn is a typical teenage girl. During the Zombie Apocalypse. After the horrific events of the mysterious Seven Days, her family, including her parents and her little brother Sherlock, is in constant danger. What happens when tragedy strikes their New England home?
1. Flip

The bus bumped.

"What grade's your brother in?"

Well, this was unusual. Where did this conversation come from? Ms Linda didn't just talk to me. We were both here because we needed to be. Not because we wanted to.

"Seventh."

"And you? Tenth?"

"Yup."

"So you're three years apart?"

"Yes."

Technically two and a half, but I'm not telling her that. I traced my backpack with a solid digit, inwardly unimpressed with my chunky fingers.

I stared out the window, watching the rain slowly meander down my window. I sat in this seat every day, even though the bus was typically empty, save for the random senior who didn't want to waste gasoline on that particular day. I watched a rather large man easily take down a Zed. I began to picture my life as a feature film, with my character being played by—No, those were pre-war thoughts. It's not right to think that way now.

I focused on Ms Linda. I'd never bothered asking about what her life was like. And I didn't care. I had my own thoughts to contend with, and that was enough for me.

She was thin and looked athletic. I had never really seen her face-forward; her blonde ponytail bobbed at me and the mirror showed me her forehead. We didn't talk, really: we communicated. I supposed she looked the type to get up at the yawn of Satan to go running while drinking a weight-loss-smoothie-frappuccino. And it wouldn't spill.

Looking back, sure, I might've been intimidated by her. But not jealous. It was just weird to be having a conversation with your bus driver. It doesn't happen.

Ever since the Seven Days, my folks had been constantly reminding my brother and I about people. Don't get close to them, they might turn, blah de blah de blah. I'm sure your parents said similar things when the Zeds attacked. My parents called them 'Zombies'. But I was still recovering from my British phase pre-war. So 'Zeds' they were to me.

My little brother denied their existence completely, even when he packed his knife for school. Sometimes I wonder what it was like to be him, in a world without zombies. My brother is named Sherlock. Yeah, I know. You'd think that with dorky parents like mine, they'd pull some obscure Gaelic name out of their asses and we'd be teased for that and only that. But no.

My name is Aeowyn. It's from Lord of the Rings. My dad spelled it wrong. End of discussion.

Now, onto the homework for tonigh-

The bus flipped.

At that moment a million things flew through my mind, just like we flew through the air. I couldn't hear anything, just…silence. I thought I was going to die. And within a fraction of a second I accepted that.

Not that I had much to live for then. The Zeds had destroyed whatever family unity we had. You'd think they'd bring us together, but the tension was unbearable. School seemed like a relief.

And I closed my eyes, wishing for the quick, painless death I had learned was best.

When I opened my eyes, it was just as I expected. Darkness enveloped me and choked me, my pulsing temples pounding like drums, giving me an immediate headache. I blinked and shifted. Icy pain shot up and down my back, and I realized I was spread out on a bed of broken glass. Carefully I lifted my arm and wiped at my eyes, finding them crusted over with blood. I swallowed and the saliva slid roughly against a sore throat. I stood and shook the glass from my body, pulling the dried blood from the corners of my eyes and taking in my surroundings.

The woods.

I heard birds, wind, and little else. The sun was blocked by the hulking bus, turned on its side and rid of all glass. My thoughts turned to Ms Linda. Where was she anyway?

I turned in a full circle before spotting her figure by some ferns. She was on her side, like the bus, and her ponytail had grass in it. I rushed to her side.

She moaned and turned over. I pulled my knife and stepped back. Her eyes opened and I sighed in relief and put my knife down. "Thought you were a Zed." I offered my hand in help.

"Zed?"

"Zombie."

"Ah." She stood and took my hand, releasing it upon gaining her own footing. "You okay?" I noticed her ankle had a nasty snag in it. I looked away.

"Er…yup." My hand flew to my temple, where I felt a cut, still bleeding. "So I guess we're heading back to the main highway?"

She didn't reply. She walked past me, favoring her right ankle, towards the bus. She tilted her head slowly, pressing one ear to the roof of the bus.

"What are you-"

"Shh!" She shot me a look and brought her finger out in my direction, not leaving the bus.

After a few seconds, she grabbed my backpack from nearby and shot away, gripping my arm and whispering, "They're there."

We ran deeper into the woods.

We ran, and she pushed me ahead of her, half-galloping on her bad ankle. We stopped for a bit and took stock. She had a shotgun in her bag, along with some trail mix in a bag, a half-empty water bottle, a map, and a banana. I had the knife my father had given me, my silver fork, and the lunch I had neglected that day in a sad attempt to lose weight. She glanced at my lunch without comment. The Zeds groaned and we continued on our way.

Once she was sure we had lost the Zeds, she pulled me down to a half-covered log. We both sat, panting. Maybe she wasn't the athletic tart I had taken her for.

"So what's the plan?" I asked. My parents would be worried sick. They'd move on if I was dead.

"I'm takin' you home. That's the plan." She craned her neck to look for Zeds.

"That's it? We're not gonna…I don't know."

"What were you expecting?" She turned to look at me.

I brought my head down. "I don't know," I repeated. "What happens if…?"

"If they get me" -she motioned with her shotgun at her head- "don't be difficult. One in the noggin and I'm not comin' back." I just nodded and bit my lip, stewing in the knowledge that being difficult came easily to me.

We trudged through the woods, and I could feel the grime permeating my skin. It was uncomfortable, but I shrugged it off. It had been worse during the Seven Days. We both looked like shit, anyway. Her ankle oozed and screamed at me, but I said nothing. Her perky ponytail had been snagged on a branch and cut the band, leaving her hair thorny, messy, and full of leaves. She pushed her hair back behind her shiny emerald earrings. She had sworn, but moved on quickly. I kept my pigtails in, and she didn't ask for a hair tie.

"Ms Linda."

"Call me June."

"June."

"Mmm?"

"Can I see the map?"

"Sure."

I studied the map until I memorized the way home, in case I needed to go alone. She gave me a nod as I returned it.

Continuing to move at an unbearably slow pace towards my house, I daydreamed about what my parents would say. They'd be so happy I was alive. I imagined my mother breathing a sigh of relief and giving me food. My father would be so happy he'd _cry._ Hah. That'd teach 'em.

I heard something behind me. I whirled around, seeing a Zed with an axe buried healthily in his skull directly in front of me. I stifled a scream and my nostrils caught his earthy, decomposing scent. My eyes rolled into the back of my head involuntarily and my vision went white. Hands caught me from behind and helped me up quickly. The Zed stumbled and gave a moan. I heard more behind him as June dragged me away. I gained my senses back quickly and started to run.

We ran, her wounded ankle stomping behind her healthy one. I took this opportunity to go ahead, bounding over treacherous roots and nature's traps. A Zed landed a groping hand against her pink top, sending her down to the ground. I didn't stop. She gave a cry as his teeth penetrated her ankle's flesh. My feet moved forward involuntarily. I swear I could hear her turn as his sour phlegm infected her oozing wound. And with her last breath, she said simply: "Jim." That I could hear.

The sun shone like amber through the trees readying themselves for winter's harsh tongue. Frost covered my shivering body, an ache running its way down my shoulders. I needed to go back for June. She had covered my ass all the way, and what did I do? Thrown her away like she was only my life. And she was. What was I going to do now? I needed to recover the shotgun. All I had was my knife, and I needed all the protection I could get.

Gently, I made my way down to her body. Surprisingly, she was still there. The Zeds had most likely flocked to another innocent target. I raised my knife, anticipating an attack. Her body rested in a slight niche, and I could see how she had met her fate, with a tangle of pricker bushes lining the way. Small thorns had embedded themselves into her body. I aimed for the shotgun and held my breath against the all-too-familiar stench of rotting corpse. My hand reached for the weapon when one of the thorns caught me and I yelped shortly, bringing it back. June's body shot up with the smell of blood, and before I knew what was happening, the knife was embedded in her skull.

"Rest in peace," I muttered, taking the shotgun. I paused before turning, noticing the earrings I had admired before. The small silver balls beckoned, gleaming in the light, holding the emeralds enticingly. I took them. What use could she have for them now? She'd gone to a better place, a place where people don't use emerald earrings.

I shoved the earrings deep into my pockets and my thoughts of June deep into my mind.


	2. Hold Them Close

…

I recognized my road and shuffled coldly towards the direction of my house. The sun had set swiftly and left me shivering for forgiveness in the sharp cold, letting a thick fog settle over everything. I estimated the time to be nine or ten thirty. The wind and fog mixed and left me shuddering. The moon partially illuminated the abandoned-looking houses. I remembered putting up blackout curtains left from my great-grandparents from WWII. My father and I covered each window tightly to avoid visibility in case we were bombed or chosen for looting.

We had established the house as an impregnable fortress against both Zeds and humans. My father and uncles staying with us kept watch during the nights to keep the rest of us safe. None of us slept at first, and the nights were quietly endless. We kept our weapons clean and at the ready at all times. Food was rationed and protected, as was gasoline and hygiene products.

My two aunts, Izzy and Meghan, took care of the children, Clint, Dean, and little Martina. My uncles, Peter and John, kept watch and helped with the cooking and the protective duties. I did some of each, being the able-bodied teen, bouncing from group to group and helping when I could.

I remembered these things as I stumbled towards the house. It came into view and I hefted my arms above my head. The universal signal for: "Not a Zombie."

I heard murmurs in the dark ahead of me, but my head was already swimming, my nose releasing phlegm freely, holding my hands above my head for all my worth. I prayed for them to recognize me. At least if they shot me, it would be in the head, once, a death that offered no suffering. My uncles are superb shots.

Instead, the whispers and softly spoken words came closer and I could make out my Aunt Izzy and my father. The fog crept up and choked my vision, like smoke. I kept walking, but their voiced echoed around me.

"We can't let this go on," I heard Aunt Izzy whisper right next to my ear, echoing against the leafy wetness of the night.

"Isabel, please. Just think about this. For me." My father said quietly, halfway across the world.

"No. Rob, stop. Think about Marie."

"I can't think about Marie. Not with you around."

"What about Sherlock? Or Aeowyn?"

"Stop this. You were fine with us before."

Their footfalls ceased. "I'm scared, Rob. Scared of us, scared of this, scared of the world. Scared of you. I don't even know why Peter brought us here." I heard her leaving.

"I love you. And you love me, too. And no goddamned apocalypse can stop that. So just come back. Peter has nothing to do with us. Neither does Marie."

"Dad," I called, not able to take any more. I continued walking forward, feeling my footsteps against the hard ground. All I wanted was to be home. No more of this.

"Aeowyn?" Concern rang in his voice.

"Yeah. I'm home."

"Oh my God," I faintly heard Aunt Izzy say, coming closer.

I realized I looked like shit. "I haven't been bit," I said defensively against the fog. They linked arms with me and brought me home.

...

I woke up in my bed after a dreamless sleep. Dreams weren't even an escape anymore, as the reality crept through the rose-tint and waking up was a disappointment. The only true relief was the deep black inside my mind. I often wondered if that's what death is like. Peace.

My mother was sitting there beside me, sleeping. Keeping watch. Seeing if I would turn. I crept out of bed, coughing softly, and she woke immediately. Trained by the attacks, we all were nervous.

"Mom. I'm fine. It's okay, I swear."

She looked like a ghost, thin and pale. Even the tough hours outside hadn't brought color to her cheeks. "Aeowyn. We worried." She stated this simply. I understood. You only mourn so long. Even a night was pushing it these days, although we all tried to move past the Seven Days. Everyone tried. But horror like that is something that changed us all, try as we might to hide it.

I didn't have to say anything. She stroked my cheek with a thin, cold, hand, like she didn't believe I was there, and floated past me.

...

"Sherlock."

"Aeowyn." He sounded vaguely angry. He didn't look at me as I sat down, just concentrated on sharpening his knife. "I thought you were dead."

"Pity, huh?"

"Just stop! Stop trying to be funny. It doesn't work anymore."

"Sherlock-"

"No. You're a fucking-"

"Where did you learn that word?" Sherlock never swore. He had been against it completely and announced loudly every morning that swearing was bad, vegetables were good, and to always always brush your teeth.

"Uncle Jonah."

"Jonah's here?"

"_Uncle _Jonah."

"Yeah?" Jonah swept into the room, eyes filled with happiness.

"Uncle Jonah!" Sherlock's face was filled with joy at its purest. "Teach me how to shoot again, Uncle Jonah!"

I stood there feeling numb. Wasn't Sherlock supposed to be happy that I was alive? Didn't my parents care anymore? Or did my father just want to gallop through sunshiney fields with petite little Aunt Izzy?

"Come on, Sport." Jonah gathered Sherlock and the pistols. "Wanna join?" he offered me.

"The noise'll attract Zeds."

"Nah. Ain't been no fuckin' Ol' Z-faces around for at least a month." He glanced at Sherlock.

I ignored my little brother's presence. He was twelve. Around here you needed to grow up fast. "They just released the news report three days ago. The new strain? Stronger, faster, smarter? Isn't that why _you're_ here? Not just so you can butt into our business?"

He looked genuinely stunned. I walked away before getting hurt feelings was an option.

...

Later, I went into my bedroom and opened up my journal of last words. I added "'Jim.' –June Linda. 11.12.19." The emerald earrings were placed atop the book.

...

The next morning I rose and took duty with Uncle Peter. We only had school twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, so we kids could all do our part with help fighting the Zeds. It had been six years and none of us counted grades anymore, we just learned what we needed and continued on our way.

That morning Peter looked haggard and worn. I hid any thoughts of Aunt Izzy and my father away and smiled painfully at him. We set to work on feeding the chickens and Moosey the pig, named by Sherlock and Dean. Then we relieved Uncle Jonah from his post and sent him away to the kitchen and his coffee. I didn't look him in the eyes. Uncle Peter and I sat on the frozen porch behind the lookout and soaked up the silence.

...

I awoke to a pool of drool on my hand. I had fallen asleep. Uncle Peter looked off into the distance at the sun, barely up through the trees at eight o'clock. I yawned and excused myself. He only nodded.

I stood up and stretched, letting the cloth shake out on my clothes. I spotted movement. "Peter! There!" I whispered.

His hands flew to the rifle and positioned it. "Positive it's one of them?"

"Mm, hold. Wait here." I stood and jumped down, letting my legs wobble.

"Aeowyn!"

I shushed him and crept closer. It was indeed a Zed.

Behind him were about fifty more.

My eyes widened and my hands shot out to my sides. Slowly, I backed away, back into the lookout. "They're there."

"We can't go shooting them like this. Noise'd just attract more. Then we'd really be fucked."

"Okay, okay. Hold on. I'll wake up the rest, make sure they're fine and aware." I slipped through the side entrance and began to wake up the household.

...

My father made a plan: Jonah would lure them into the barn and we'd torch it. It sounded like a good, sound idea. A fine idea. We all shook our heads in agreement.

I counted everybody up. Immediately I knew something was amiss. My mother's eyes looked dead and my father's eyes looked alive. Aunt Izzy's screamed of guilt as she held her baby girl and Aunt Meghan held her boys in her arms like she never wanted to let go. Peter, Jonah, and John sat on the lookout, surveying the situation. Everyone was accounted for. Except for Sherlock.

I snuck out, letting the numb, emotionless internal quiet settle through me. I was already over Sherlock's death. I needed him to be alive.

The Zeds huddled in a mass, forward like disease-riddled sheep being led to slaughter. Or were they coming for the sheep in the slaughterhouse? Jonah would decide that. I heard yelling and knew the plan had begun to take effect.

I searched for my brother among the Zeds. He's only twelve.

Normally twelve-year-olds are proud of a good grade or a model car or learning how to ride a bike. Normal twelve-year-olds worry about girls and skinned knees and sometimes grades. My brother was proud of his first kill. My brother worried about protecting his family.

I spotted him, on the roof of the house, above the Zeds, as Jonah walked in slowly, the Zeds following him in bloodlust.

"Sherlock, please. Get down from there."

He held his gun and said, "No. I'm trying to save you."

I was crying but I didn't know where it was coming from. My stomach felt empty and my brain light. "I don't need saving."

"Aeowyn, please."

"What do you need? Want? I'll get you anything, just hold on." I could save him, really.

"No. I'm killin' 'em, Big A. Watch." He started to pull the trigger.

"No!" I yelled, but it was too late. His proud grin collapsed into a fatal, woeful look. The last time I saw his face was a look of pure terror as the shotgun's recoil sent him flying down to the ground, towards the old pigpen. The trough rose up to meet his fragile neck, sending blood spurting out in all directions. A few Zeds broke away from the group and went towards him.

"_No_!" I roared, rearing up my knife and hurtling at them. My cry brought the attention of two more, but most of them continued stumbling into the barn. I sunk the knife into the earthy flesh of the godless cannibals, tears blurring my vision and spine aching.

I went to my brother's side, in time to watch the light in his eyes click off. At that moment, everything shut down. I held him in my arms, wishing to God I could do everything over again. Treat him like a brother. A true brother. Teach him how to dance. Give him shit advice and hugs and Christmas presents. Annoy him about friends, listen to him complain about mine. Show him how to make new friends, a pie, a decent Photoshop job. Listen to him complain, cry, whine, pour his heart out. Be a sister. A good sister. One he'd look up to and love and admire and need.

Regret coursed through my body. I blindly shanked a Zed across the eyes and turned around. The smell of blood brought up by the Zed brought Sherlock back. His eyes opened, but nothing was behind them. Uncle Jonah closed the barn door and tossed me one of the pistols he was carrying.

I raised it and looked Sherlock up and down. He stumbled forward, blood coursing from his neck, bent at an angle. I squeezed both my eyes shut and the trigger down.

I heard the slap of his small body against the cold, hard, ground. The barn began to blaze behind me, and I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.


	3. News

…

We mourned at Sherlock's gravesite for a total of twenty minutes before Uncle Jonah salted and burned the corpse. Nothing was really said. My father set a warm, damp, hand on my shoulder and it was all I could do to shrug it off. My mother stood beside me, and when I turned to look at her, her eyes reflected the liquid flames but not herself. She was as dead as Sherlock.

Izzy looked frightened and small, so young, against the night, the flames leaping and licking the crisp air in front of her. Dean held Clint's hand in brotherly defense against the promise of death. Aunt Meghan held baby Martina close to her bosom, as if the closer to her the baby was the further away she was from the world, further from the danger and the Zeds. Further from me.

The girl who couldn't stop her little brother from dying.

We stood in the night, letting the frozen air threaten our lungs, watching the pyre burn and the stars burn coldly from millions of miles away.

…

For the next few days I tried to be strong. Uncle Jonah tapped on my door, offering words of encouragement and comfort, but I ignored him and kept my door locked. Doing chores, I stacked wood like I had a fever, building and building and building the pain away, callouses forming as the bark scraped at my palms sharply, building and stacking and chopping.

Sherlock is dead.

Everywhere, traces of him, his clothes, his weapons, lay strewn around the house, a constant reminder of our loss. None of us talked about him, but when they passed me in the hallway, they looked away from me, either in guilt or sympathy I don't know.

My mother disappeared from outdoor duties, sleeping in often, eating little and talking less. We gave her our distance, for Sherlock's sake.

One day Uncle Jonah swore and slammed through the house, yelling, and we all gathered to watch in both interest and horror. "He was just a fucking boy!" he yelled, throwing a small wooden chair on the grass, the legs splitting. "It's not fair!" A picture book with dinosaurs on the cover flapped beside the chair. "Fuck!" a shirt Sherlock had outgrown last year. Trip after trip, item after item, tears and snot and dirt on his face. He tossed things of Sherlock's into a pile outside, lighting them and throwing in more and more until nothing of Sherlock's was left, save his knife snug by my leg. He ended by kneeling a short distance from the flames and sobbing, arms slipping to the ground until he was lying beside the fire in the agony of loss. "Fuck, fuck. Oh, God, fuck."

The crowd dissolved.

…

About two days after that, a red pickup truck rumbled down our driveway, and my father ordered everyone inside. The rest of the family huddled together in the dining room together. Jonah left for the family room, where he had been sleeping, and sat on the couch holding his head in his hands. I rushed to the window and watched my father greet the driver cordially. They shook hands and the man slapped my father's back playfully.

Their voices murmured and I couldn't discern any words clearly. My breath fogged up the glass and it smelled moldy and damp. After a brief exchange, they hugged tightly and the man returned to his truck and backed out of the driveway, engine rumbling.

I hurried down the stairs into the dining room as Uncle Jonah joined the rest of the family and my father entered. His face looked old and haggard and for the first time in a long time I realized how prematurely old he was. Deep wrinkles pinched his face together around his eyes and mouth. His eyes grew dark before he spoke and I knew something was up.

"Ted's brought news," he began.

We waited. "And?" urged Aunt Meghan.

He made a half-smile, half-grimace, and she shooed Clint and Dean into the other room to play. When they were gone, he continued, "Town's gone. The late have completely consumed it. This new strain. They've got a group at the Y but they're running out of supplies. Ted said he had a hell of a time getting here, the roads are so clogged up with dead."

"We makin' a run?" Uncle Jonah was tough again.

"We have to. They've helped us in times of need."

Jonah nodded and Izzy bit her lip in worry. My father continued, "We're going to make a run down to the Shelter in the morning and then we'll head to the Y and make the drop-off. Peter, Meghan, Jonah, and myself will make the trip."

"I should come."

He turned and looked at me before nodding fairly. "Okay, and Aeowyn. We'll eat dinner early so we can hit the road at sunrise. The rest of you can hold down the fort." With this, he walked away, leaving us all stunned.

Aunt Izzy excused herself and joined him in the kitchen. As the family continued their activities, focusing on the upcoming day, I stood and listened, but the only thing I heard from their conversation was Aunt Izzy asking him, "Why aren't I going?"

He replied, "Because I don't want to lose you."


	4. Rescuing An Angel

…

I opened my eyes to my room, still black as pitch. I felt around, gathering my senses before tossing away the covers. Taking tentative steps in the dark, I used my knowledge of the house to find my way to the bathroom, managing to not awake the rest of the house.

I wanted to be ready for action before the rest of them. I needed to prove that I was still sane, still useful. Still unlike my mother.

Since we were conserving as much water as we could, baths weren't allowed anymore. I sorely missed slowly sliding into the warmest waters of perfection, the heat prickling my skin pleasantly. Instead I cleansed myself as best I could using room temperature water, a harsh sponge, and my allotted nub of bar soap.

My father's words from the night before still stung. He cared for Aunt Izzy more than he cared for his own daughter. But I was still the reason Sherlock had died. And my father would never forgive me for that. Nobody cared for me before the apocalypse, and after it they didn't even need to pretend to. I found myself scrubbing my arm over and over, the roughness of the sponge whispering against my skin as I tried to clean away myself.

…

I dressed for the outing in a dark green long sleeved shirt, dark jeans that fit snugly but not restrictingly so, as to avoid getting caught in things and making it easy to run. I fastened my weapons belt around both of my legs, making sure it didn't slip before adding my knife on the left and my brother's on the right. My boots could go on later, I decided.

I heard stirring in the house and crept to listen. Morning sighs and stretching noises accompanied footsteps on the roof, meaning someone's night watch was over. The replacement groaned sleepily as they opened the outside door.

Slowly, everyone started waking to get ready for the trip. I listened to the sounds and pretended we were a whole family again.

…

Before we left, my father gathered us in the family room. I played with my heavy boots as he talked. They used to be really big, but I had grown into them fairly quickly and they were now secure around my feet.

"Okay, group, we're making a run today. To the Y," he emphasized as he handed out granola bars. "These are for the road. Eat 'em slowly because we'll be back around dinnertime." He seemed to be looking directly at me. "We're going down to the refill and then down to the Y. I'm not sure how much help they'll need but we're preparing for the worst. Aeowyn, you'll be needing a gun."

I shook my head, turning to show my knife. "I'm good."

He looked dubious but turned away to distribute weapons to the rest. Jonah preferred his own 9mm handguns and had a tendency to expertly duel-wield. Peter volunteered to keep watch in the van with the rifle, one of two we owned. My father and Meghan took a handgun each and kept their knives for the expected melee.

I was ready to die.

…

Meghan drove and nobody talked. I felt the crinkling of the granola bar in my pocket and I stared out the window. Due to the excessive clogging of the highways, it was necessary to use back roads and quick shortcuts to save on gasoline. Trees flitted by and I wondered if this was my last car ride, if this was it. Maybe a Zed would finally get me this time.

All of a sudden, Meghan slammed down the brakes, and my face was buried in the headrest in front of me. I looked over at Jonah beside me and he shrugged. "Jesus fucking Christ, woman!" my father roared. "What was that?"

"There's something in the road." She said it calmly, but I could tell she wanted to slap my father. "It looks like a person."

We continued to sit. "Dead or…_not_ dead?" Jonah finally voiced.

"Or alive?" Peter asked.

"Can't tell from here," Meghan replied. She looked at my father with eyes that said, _What are you going to do now, big stuff?_

He seemed flustered, but gave a nod to Peter and Jonah. Peter opened the side door and I heard his feet hit the ground, then Jonah behind him. It was difficult to see properly, but I saw Jonah take out both handguns and heard him cock them. They passed out of my line of sight and although I strained my ears I heard nothing.

"Rob!" Peter called, and my father leapt from the passenger's side onto the road in seconds. Meghan looked back at me and gave a small shrug, like she didn't want to get her hopes up.

They returned swiftly, carrying a limp body of a dangerously thin girl, wearing only an oversized white man's shirt stained with blood and dirt.

"Move, move, prop up her head. Be careful," my father ordered me. I complied, pressing myself against the window and holding her head in my lap and hands. Her hair was short against her head, and she looked like an angel. A proper angel.

I was cautious not to move her. Her body rested along Peter and Jonah for lack of proper room in the van. The back was not suitable for her. Meghan looked back. "How bad is she?"

Peter's eyes widened exasperatedly and he stammered.

"Let's trade places, honey. Come on." Meghan read the fear in her husband's eyes. He was probably thinking that girl could be their daughter. Or me. Meghan slid into the seat gently and lifted up the girl's shirt to reveal a nasty wound.

Jonah inhaled.

"If you need to look away, it's okay." She offered, but neither of us did. "I was a nurse," she reminded us, "I've seen worse."

"Where do we go?" Peter looked at my father, back in the passenger's seat.

"We're going to finish the job. We have to."

"She's bleeding real bad," Meghan said. "We're gonna have to hurry."

I looked down and I wondered how someone so beautiful could have gotten into shit this deep.

...


	5. Ayo's Zombie Hotel

**[Author's Note: Happy Birthday to my lovely buddy Ayo! I hope your day is filled with happiness and joy (and not zombies…!). I hope you enjoy this chapter you perfect human being you 3 Also the Ayo in this story is only loosely based on you.]**

…

We arrive at the checkpoint to be greeted by Ayo, the kind young woman who helps circulate food to those who need it. As my father and Peter go to the goodshouse, and Meghan and Jonah rush the angel to the sick bay, Ayo offers to tell me a bit about the place, to take my mind off things for a bit.

People with extra goods come by and trade some for a room in the grand hotel she managed to find, a crumbling jewel nestled in the forest. It looks like it used to be fancy, a major source of income for the owners, but Ayo tells me its origins lie in domestic use, owned by the Casenturie family. Tired, dirty, and sometimes bitten people flock to Ayo's Zombie Hotel. She hates to turn anyone down, she says, especially bitten ones. She gives the infected a last chance at happiness before they turn.

I admire what Ayo does, but I just guess it would be difficult to knowingly welcome a Zed, even if it hasn't turned yet. When I say this to her, she laughs and replies, "They're still human until they turn. Sometimes they bring extra food and gear just so someone can understand they're still human. Families turn out their own because they don't trust them, but they also don't want to shoot them. I get that." She smiles warmly, but I sense a bit of sadness behind it. I suppose if you invest so much time in the dead, you don't get too attached to life.

…

After Ayo excuses herself to the sick bay, I meander around the Zombie Hotel's court alone, watching people bring supplies to and from the supply houses just outside. Rooms encircle the gaudy court, with three levels and a majestic staircase with patchy red carpeting worn along the steps.

People are thinner than they should be, unnaturally whittled down by hunger and weathered by Zeds and the fight for survival. The deadness in their eyes and the shuffle in their steps make it difficult to differentiate the survivors from the Zeds, and the new strain isn't even a factor in my mind.

Uncle Jonah approaches me out of breath from running. "Aeowyn! Meghan needs you in the sick bay."

"What for?" Meghan is a nurse; how can I help her at all?

"Not sure exactly. I'm sure just for moral support." He squeezes my shoulder, attempting to be comforting, but it's just awkward. My mind flashes back to when Jonah knocked on my door, after Sherlock died, needing _me_ for moral support.

"Okay. Where will you be?"

"Goodshouse. Taking quick stock before we move on. Gotta be at the Y before noon."

"'kay." I nod and locate the sign for the sick bay.

…

The sick bay is one of the larger rooms in the house. There are lines of beds, generally empty, but some occupied by the bitten or close to turning, moaning and shivering. I spot Ayo attending one of them, a young boy with a blood-soaked shoulder, wailing in pain and bucking his small body against the sheets.

"Shh, shh." Ayo attempts to comfort him, but he is deaf to her shushes and begins to scream, thrashing wildly and covering his ears with his hands, eyes shut tight against the world. I stop and watch, in curiosity and slight fear.

The boy suddenly leaps for Ayo, and the fury and hunger is apparent as he opens his eyes. A certain fire in them has been extinguished, but something else lurks behind them. A need for flesh. He reaches for Ayo, and I step forward to assist, but a sharp shot and the boy slumps down, a fresh hole in his forehead.

Ayo sighs and turns, noticing me. The other patients cower in their beds, shivering in either fear or the knowledge of what awaits them. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she says softly, as if it's her fault the boy was bitten.

"No, it's…it's all good." She tries so _hard_. All I want to do is just hug her and tell her it's not her fault, that it's okay. It's the zombie apocalypse and she does everything she can to make sure everyone else is fine. Bless her.

She looks tired and blood stains cover her front. "…Good. Okay, well." Before she turns to go, I rush forward and hug her tightly, despite my earlier predisposition.

She's surprised at first, but I feel a pat on my back. "Thank you so much for this," I say, pulling away. "You've given a lot of people something to live for."

I don't say this because the Zombie Hotel has helped me, but I feel it explains the hug. Besides, without Ayo's Hotel, the angel we picked up would probably not be breathing. She smiles and nods her head slightly. "Thank you."

I turn and walk to look for the angel, and I smile knowing maybe I do have something to live for. Maybe I can make others happy, even if they don't care for me. Make Sherlock proud. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

…

On the far end of the room, near the windows, I locate the bed holding the angel. The sunlight hits her face and her eyelashes look feathery and long. Her face has been cleaned, and she is more breathtaking than before. She isn't conscious, and I find myself wondering what color her eyes are.

Meghan is sitting beside her. I notice some blood on her arms and decide not to bring it up. "Aunt Meghan? You needed me?"

"Aeowyn. This girl—do you recognize her?" Her voice is kind of hoarse and I assume it's from yelling directions at Jonah.

I shake my head no.

"You sure? Didn't go to school with you?" She looks like she thinks I'm lying to her.

"I'm sure. Never seen her before."

She leans back. "Nobody else has, either. No family, no clothes, no money. No weapons. Nothing." I look down at her, sleeping peacefully. Chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Alive. "Not a scratch on her, zombie-wise."

I look back at Meghan. "So?"

Her eyebrows rise. "_So?_ She's not infected. She's been out there for god-knows-how-long and she's not infected! It's a miracle she's even alive!"

"Keep your voice down."

"You don't think she's…" She looks around and her voice drops, "…immune?"

"I don't know. You're a nurse!"

"I quit nursing school to marry Peter. I never finished," she admitted.

"So do _you _think she's immune?"

"I don't know what I think. But I know that there are people who would pay big money for immunity. Especially with this new strain going around. We could…we could get help. We could live in safety, Aeowyn. Your father would be so happy. You could go back to school. Clint and Dean could _begin _school. And Martina—she wouldn't have to know what a zombie is." Tears of excitement form at the edges of her eyes, and I hate to shoot her down.

"Aunt Meghan! We can't sell out this girl! How do we even know she's immune, anyway? And nowhere is safe. Not with this new shit going around. I'm sorry, Aunt Meghan, but she's hurt and you should _do no harm_. Right now, I'm pretty sure she trusts you. Like _I_ trust you." I sling that at her, and I see it hurts. For good measure, I add, with intensifying volume, "And my father. Jesus. Even _I_ don't know what would make him happy right now."

"Why don't you ask Izzy‽" she yells, and it stings.

"You knew?"

"Who the fuck doesn't?"

I bite my lip, glance at the angel innocently resting on the bed, and walk away as calmly as I can. The patients stare as I pass by them, and before I reach the door, one of them says to me, "Smooth." I flip him off and enter a random empty room, near the sick bay. I find the granola bar and bite down on it, grinding my teeth and regretting everything I've ever said.

"Here's to you, Sherlock," I say, raising the bar above my head and chuckling until the tears force me to choke.

…


	6. Disappearing Wounds

**[Author's Note: I will be away for about a week, so I am posting two Zed chapters in a row this week and there will be no Zeds next week. Thank you for putting up with me uwu]**

…

Peter and my father are standing in the goodshouse, talking animatedly with Charlie, the goods keeper. Charlie has his hands on his hips and I can tell they are politely arguing, my father nodding his head almost violently as they debated. They're probably talking about the amount of shit my father is allowed to take to the Y. Undoubtedly he's attempting to talk Charlie into extra rations for our farm.

I suppose you can't call our farm a farm anymore. I mean, we don't have any livestock. We lost our sheep and cows to the Zeds when my father got drunk and accidentally left them out. We didn't have the rest of the family to help him fly sober then.

I remember stumbling across my father's liquor stash one time. I was eight and reading the fancy labels made me feel grown-up, feeling the smooth glass and sloshing the half-empty bottles in my small pudgy hands. I took my first sip and felt the sweet scorching sting of alcohol down my throat. I took another sip. And another. I carefully put away the bottles of wine just as I had discovered them, neatly stowed beside a large silver flask, filled with something that sharply slapped my nostrils when I took a swig, and a room-temperature vodka bottle, unopened. They were in the cool basement, under my grandfather's box of war medals in the closet.

I also remember my father, discovering my intrusion, bursting into my room and cuffing me swiftly round the head before saying, "Never again, you little shit." I cried more out of confusion and humiliation than actual pain. He had never hit me before and he hasn't since.

Sherlock had heard me and all he did was hug me. He was barely six then, but he didn't ask any questions, just hugged me. My mother had appeared in the doorway, only to watch silently. None of us ever brought it up.

…

I approach Jonah. He's standing a bit apart from my father, holding a clipboard with tallies and numbers scratched on it. He must see the look on my face, still recovering from my talk with Meghan, so he says, worriedly, "Aeowyn? Everything all right?"

"Fine." I look away and focus on the great debate. "We should really be moving on. Those people need us."

He nods. "Fuckin' dickhole father of yours won't settle for what they've allotted us." His eyes dart right to me. "No 'ffense."

I smirk. "None taken."

"How's the little princess doing?"

I bite my lip. "Seems fine. I mean, Meghan wants to leave her here."

Jonah bobs his head slightly to the left. "Suppose that's the right thing. Mean, better medical treatments, regular food, roof over her head."

"We can't just leave her here! Abandoning her isn't right."

"It means more rations we have to share, less water for us all, less living space. Means a lot of things."

"Oh? That's not what you said when Sherlock died." I say it bitterly, and immediately I regret saying it, watching the small amount of happiness in his eyes extinguish.

He grits his teeth slowly, saying, "Little fucker can stay." He stalks away, squaring his shoulders.

I seem to be picking a lot of fights today. I sigh. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I be at least slightly pleasant to anyone? Not even my own family, the only people I have left in this world? I chew my lip until I taste blood, and I bite down, savoring the pain. At least I'm still alive.

…

When my father and Peter finally get their shit together, I approach them respectfully. The last thing I need is to piss off my father today. "Hey," Peter says, "news?"

"Nothing, really. When are we going?"

"Maybe twenty minutes," my father replies, busying himself with a clipboard similar to Jonah's.

I decide to ask as casually as I can manage. "So," I say, possibly too casually, "the girl?"

"Oh," my father says, a disappointing answer.

"I was hoping she could come home with us. Meghan and I can help her heal, and once she's up and about, it's an extra pair of working hands. She'll be thankful for the help and she might reward us." Half of that is 100% pure bullshit, but I figure anything I say will help.

He thinks for a second before replying, "What about our rations?"

Without thinking, I answer, "She'll get half of mine." My body is used to not eating anyway, and not due to lack of rations.

He nods curtly. "All right, Aeowyn. Go tell Meghan."

I am loath to say anything to Meghan again. "'Kay," I tell him, walking away, inwardly bubbling with my success. What if Meghan was right, and the angel was immune? I mean, her big cut wasn't infected or anything, and it seemed to have been almost healed. That could have been Meghan's nursing skills, but somehow…

I shake my thoughts out of my head. The day is already long.

…

"Aunt Meghan."

She turns and the lines in her face seem deep like the Grand Canyon. She's only thirty-five and strands of her hair are already white.

"Aeowyn."

"The angel—she's coming with us."

"Angel?"

"The girl." I shake my head slightly and rub my eyes, feeling my lack of sleep reverberate through my body. I suppress a yawn.

"Ah. I suppose your father has ordered this?" Meghan has her hands on her hips, ready for another fight, but I'm not in the mood.

"It's not like he's the leader or anything," I grumble tiredly as I sit down in one of the visitor's chairs beside the angel's bed. She smirks slightly at that, and I ask, attempting to make it seem like I had already forgotten our shouting match, "When do you think she's going to wake up?"

Her hands drop to her sides and she sighs, a sign I take to mean a mutual understanding: we're over it. "It could be anytime. Look at this." She lifts up the angel's shirt and where I expected to see a nasty gash, was soft, smooth skin. Dried blood covered her stomach and side, but there was no wound. My eyebrows furrow in confusion, and I ask, "Was she ever hurt?"

Meghan looks at me as if she couldn't believe my stupidity. "Yes. You were there. She was hurt, bad. But now? Nothing."

"Jesus," I breathe, still looking, like staring at it will force it to make sense. I look up at her, studying her intently. She herself is a mystery. "Just _who _are you?"

"_What _more like." Meghan says, and I wonder what further mysteries might lie behind her eyes.

…


	7. Don't Get Scared

…

Before I know what's happening, we load back into the van, my father in the passenger's seat, Peter behind the wheel, Jonah scrunched on the other side of the backseat, avoiding me, Meghan between us, and the angel laid across us, still unconscious. Meghan, concerned about her state of unconsciousness, tells us we need to make her as comfortable as possible. Her head again finds its way onto my lap.

We drive on, my father directing Peter where the Y is. The goods we picked up at Ayo's Zombie Hotel's goodshouse are secured in the back of the van, the tank filled with gasoline. I don't ask how much my father managed to weasel out of Charlie, but I'm sure he fared well.

Meghan doesn't mention the angel's state of recovery, so I decide not to either. I'm just glad to be back on her good side. Although I do wonder—if she's better, why isn't she waking up? How long has she been unconscious like this? For all we know, it's been days—maybe up to a week.

Stop being dramatic, I tell myself, look out the window. That's what my father used to tell me when my family went on long car rides. Sherlock and I would get restless and bicker, and my mother would close her eyes really tight, like she didn't want to be there. Then my father would tell us to shut up and look out of our windows.

I'm smiling at the memory, and I look down and my hands are gently playing with the angel's hair. Stop calling her an angel, I scold myself. Her name is probably something like Tammy or Teagan or Tiffany. Something with a _T_.

I look out the window again, trying to feel the sunshine through the window. As we pass by an old church, there's a Zed chained outside, to the steps. The church sign reads, "God Is Lost."

…

A succession of dull thumps drags me from my sleep. There's drool on my chin and that slight headache-y feeling you get from sleeping in a moving car. My mouth is disgustingly dry, and my stomach is churning with either hunger or illness, I can't tell. The van continues to bump, and as I look out the window, I see we're surrounded by Zeds. The only difference between me and the Zeds outside is a piece of glass and my knives.

"Jonah," my father says, and my uncle nods in reply. Meghan and I scoot together, sheltering the angel. He flips back the latch installed on the sunroof and clambers up, using the two front headrests as a boost. His boots leave small crumbs of dirt.

The van is still in motion, but Jonah is undeterred. Shots are fired, and looking out the window, Zeds fall like dominoes, each hit directly in the head. Loads fall, and the van still –thumps- when we hit one.

A click from above. Another click. "Fuck," he mutters. "I'm out," he announces, down into the sunroof. He then slides down through it, and my father nods at Peter this time.

"Me? I don't—"

"_Go._"

The sunroof slides open and out he goes, shooting away. Zeds are still falling and the van creeps along. Peter's not as good a shot as Jonah, and the Zeds are reaching up at him on the roof. A young woman with fiery red hair and a pink waitress outfit and no eyes gasps against my window, leaving no fog because of her lack of breath. Her dead saliva coats the window soon.

I can't see anything, but we hear a big thud from the roof, and Peter screams in terror. His scream is high and awful, like a caged animal. My father rushes to shut the sunroof, and it's closed tight and locked in seconds. More thuds follow, and then banging on the sunroof door.

"Let me in, please! For God's fucking sake! Please, please, ple— "

Silence fills the van and the moans of the Zeds outside seem more insistent, louder. I reach for Meghan's hand and squeeze it. She squeezes back, but not as strongly as I expected.

…

We're still outside the Y, but the Zed count is thicker and there's no way to get in. Also, how the fuck did they _jump _all the way to the roof? My hands are shaking, I need something to do, some busywork. I look down at the angel, making sure she's safe. At least she wasn't awake.

I can't tell if what my father did was right or wrong. I don't know. I don't know anything. My head is spinning a little, the car seems to be bouncing and my heart is racing. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I close my eyes, and breathe deeply, feeling the shaking of my arms and chest.

"Are you all right?" Meghan asks. I feel guilty because she's asking _me _how I'm doing. She shouldn't. I should be the one comforting her but I'm a shit niece. I'm a shit human being.

"I'm. I'm fine." I can't open my eyes because I know I'll throw up.

"No, you're not. Aeowyn?"

"I just…it's like the Seven Days all over again. I hate it. I need to…just let me…" I need to collect myself, to breathe fresh air, to get the fuck out of the van.

"Shh, shh. It's all right." She holds me close, making sure not to move the girl, and I can't help but think about how Dean and Clint will react when we come home without Peter.

…

My father ends up driving around to the back, finding Zeds surrounding the building. They're packed everywhere, moaning and slick with blood and entrails, a thick stench penetrating the van somehow. Some of them are notably faster than the others. These Zeds are ahead of the group. Some Zeds are on all fours, panting and groaning like sick dogs, holding human parts in their mouths.

After getting some distance, Meghan and I trade places. Jonah and Meghan roll down their windows and shoot like hell, aiming for the brain. I try to concentrate on just the angel. If she can make it, I can make it. We can make it.

Magically, we gain some room for entrance. My father opens up the van doors, quickly. The faster Zeds clamor for attention and food, quickening their pace. Jonah and Meghan help each other with the cargo, and I hold the angel gently in my arms. My arms struggle to keep her, if I can only reach the door before they give out. If I run as fast as I can the Zeds won't get her.

I laugh. I run and I laugh and it reverberates around the parking lot as I race against the Zeds and the fear and the adrenaline and the only thing keeping me running, the only thing keeping me afloat is this fragile angel in my arms. My legs collapse as I reach the door, and I fall, making sure to shield her from my landing. Hands from inside wrap around me and everything goes dark.

…

I awake in a bed. I shouldn't be in bed, I should be helping—

I try and get up, but an excruciatingly painful migraine pushes me back onto my pillow and I let out a tired groan. What is wrong with me now?

My father appears in the doorway/ "Aeowyn." He sounds stern.

"Dad. I—"

"We've already distributed the supplies."

"Where's—"

"Next to you." I look and to my relief, she's laying there, eyes closed.

"_Aeowyn_." He sounds angry, so I listen. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to be strong when we're out. I'm not going to bring you if you can't pull your weight on trips. Get your act together."

"Dad, I don't know what's going on. I got scared and I—"

"Then don't get scared." He turns and leaves.

I bring my hands up to my face and moan. Isn't it normal to be scared? I mean, Zeds are trying to eat the flesh off my bones and he expects me to just—I don't know. I never want to be like him.

"Fucking dickweed."

I start. "What?" I look around.

"I said, 'fucking dickweed.'" I turn and the angel is sitting up in her bed.

Her eyes are a sharp, deep green.

…


	8. Meeting The Angel

**[Author's Note: I apologize for the length of this chapter...]**

…

I suppose the expression on my face reflects my surprise, because the angel starts laughing, curling her hands under her calves and using them to pull her forward. My brain makes a dull thump in my head, hurting in a kind of vague way.

"Wha-who are you?" I manage to say. It's kind of disconcerting to see her awake and actually talking.

"Like my name? Or do you want my fucking life story?" She laughs again, and pats around her clothes, then the bed around her. "Uh, where'd my cigs go?"

"Er, you didn't have any? And, well, both would be nice…" I feel flustered. She is not what I expected.

She snorts. "My name's Saraphina. That good enough?" She continues looking for the cigarettes and I imagine the light coming from the window giving her wings. She still seems like an angel, even if she' s a rude one.

"Yeah, that's…that's fine." My cheeks are burning bright red by now. I seem to be so clunky and clumsy and I don't smoke. My headache seems to crank it up a notch, like a fork's tines in my temples. I need to make up for myself somehow, so I say, "We found you—in the road. And you weren't, er, wearing much, and I guess you lost your cigarettes out there."

"Oh, fuckling."

I can't help it. "_Fuckling_?" I giggle.

She shoots an aggressive glare at me, but doesn't say anything.

A moment passes in silence and I finally ask, "What were you doing out there? You could've died, or gotten bit."

She pushes air out of her nose with force, a kind of almost-laugh. "I didn't."

"No, but—"

"Is it really any of your fucking business?" she shoots at me, and I shrink back a bit, pulling the covers up to my shoulders. If she's going to be an asshole, what's the point of making conversation? Besides, she was right; I had no business asking her shit. It stings a lot because I protected her the best I could and she turns out to be—well, I don't know. But not knowing isn't stopping me from feeling betrayed. The pain moves from headache to migraine in a sudden shift and I sigh in endurance.

"Hey," she says, softer, almost apologetically. "Hey! Where are we, by the way?"

I turn over. "We're at the Y's sick bay. Our group is distributing supplies and I got hurt."

"What happened?" There's no concern in her voice, just conversation.

"I was carrying _you _to safety when the zombies were attacking." I sound kind of bitter, and Saraphina bites her lip in what I can only take as embarrassment.

The pain seems to stab suddenly through my brain, and I almost groan out load, but I just close my eyes and try to endure it. I've been overworking my body recently, and it's starting to catch up with me. Maybe more time in bed is better.

Faintly I hear, "Hey, what's wrong? Hey!" from the angel, but I can't focus on much and I slip into sleep.


End file.
